1982

After the death of the Grabber, for a long time Finney had believed it was truly over and that he could return to his normal life. However, he discovered that normalcy had become impossible for him. The past refused to leave him, and all he could do to cope was get into fights to release pent-up anger and smoke weed to forget what had happened to him.

He had really tried to be normal, but he couldn't do it. His grades were dropping, people avoided him, and even his sister thought he had become a prick. He spent many afternoons at school in detention due to recurring fights. He was fairly certain he wasn't being suspended only because the teachers felt sorry for him.

Everyone at school would turn to look at him as he passed through the hallway—some falling silent in fear and others whispering something into the ear of the person next to them. Finney didn't pay attention to it. Well, tried to.

Finney sat at the back desk of the classroom so the teacher wouldn't have a clear view of him. The umpteenth afternoon of detention in a month spent in that room full of drafts and stale air.

There weren't many people besides him, just a few other students in the front rows with grades that were far too low, too many absences, and other bullshit like that. Even the last guy Finney had fought with was there—a stupid senior who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.

An idiot, but damn, he had sharp teeth. Finney's knuckles had bled all first period. He’d had to spend the break between classes wrapping his knuckles in bandages, the gauze stained crimson over his joints.

The teacher who was supposed to be supervising them sat at the desk practically half-asleep, without giving them the slightest bit of attention; consequently, very few were actually doing their homework.

Finney couldn't help but notice that everyone had sat as far away from him as possible, as if they expected him to break their noses at any moment. Except for you.

You had sat at the desk next to his, your backpack tossed at your feet and a few personal belongings on the desk, minding your own business with your Walkman headphones covering your ears.

Your presence near him almost annoyed him. The way you would occasionally stare at him didn't help make him like you any more. By the fifth glance you threw his way, he sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the chair.

"What the hell you lookin' at?" he snapped, trying to keep his voice low and his anger under control. His head snapped toward you, but you had already looked away. "I know you can hear me." Finney reached over to grab your headphones and tossed them onto your desk. "You're mute or something?"